


if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side

by moeexyz



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Bruises, Choking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Pre-Canon, Unhealthy Relationships, kepler feels one (1) emotion and bluescreens for half an hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 13:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13811892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moeexyz/pseuds/moeexyz
Summary: Kepler turns just in time to see Jacobi’s hands fall limply to the floor, eyes rolling shut.Or, Jacobi has a close call, and Kepler isn't happy about it.





	if being afraid is a crime, we hang side by side

**Author's Note:**

> Do you ever just not write any new fic for like five years, and then one day God herself hands you inspiration on a silver platter, or in a podcast format? Anyway, here's Wonderwall.
> 
> Title is from "Swingin' Party" by Lorde cause I'm self-indulgent as hell.

 

 

“Guards?”

 

“Five on the perimeter. Sixteen inside. Four on each floor.”

 

“Time?”

 

“The EMP gives us about two hours.”

 

Kepler raises an eyebrow.

 

“Hour and a half. Give or take.”

 

“Mission objective?”

 

“You asked me that one already.”

 

Kepler looks up from the gun he’s been cleaning to give Jacobi a look. Jacobi—who’s been doodling on the corner of the building schematics for the last hour—rolls his eyes.

 

“Destroy all data,” He answers. “Steal the prototype for _whatever_ technology Goddard wants to design first.” At that, Jacobi gives him an accusatory look.

 

“Need to know,” Kepler reminds him.

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jacobi waves his hand dismissively. “I know. Because we’ve gone over it thirty times, already.”

 

“Do you have something against being prepared, Mr Jacobi?” Kepler asks, using that irritatingly cheerful voice he knows Jacobi hates.

 

Jacobi fidgets. It’s his _resisting the urge to say something snarky_ fidget. Kepler’s only doing this to infuriate him, they both know this, but if Jacobi complains too much, Kepler will just drag it out for longer. They both know this also. Just like they both know what Jacobi would rather they be doing right now, but would never strictly ask for.

 

Jacobi says, “It’s a standard mission, sir. I think we passed prepared at the third Q&A.”

 

It’s a fairly diplomatic answer, for Jacobi. Kepler’s impressed with his restraint.

 

“Is there something you think would be a more productive use of our time?” Kepler asks, wryly. He smirks at the exasperated sigh this gets from Jacobi.

 

Instead of answering, Jacobi says, “Been a while since we did a mission without Maxwell.” He's twisting the pencil he's been using in his hand, moving too deliberately too pass it off as nonchalance, the way he wants to.

 

“Miss her?” Kepler asks, pulling off the nonchalance, though Jacobi knows him well enough now to know that Kepler asking about his feelings is dangerous, not friendly.

 

Jacobi evades that one too. Goes for a different tactic. Kepler feels Jacobi’s leg press against his, under the table. Kepler could probably stretch this push/pull a little longer, but, well, he’s been looking forward to this. It _has_ been a while, and Jacobi’s right, it’s a straight-forward mission, flawlessly planned. It reminds him of the old missions, before Maxwell joined the team, except better because they know each other better now. They work effortlessly as a unit. Perfect efficiency. Kepler thinks that merits a reward.

 

Besides, Jacobi’s always more focused, after. Can’t hurt.

 

He looks up from his gun, raising an eyebrow at Jacobi. Jacobi’s feigning ignorance, but there’s mischief in his eyes that he can’t hide. Jacobi has a remarkably good poker face, but his eyes always give him away. Too earnest for his own good, if you know him well. Which Kepler does.

 

Kepler raises his chin as a dare. He never moves first. It wouldn’t be appropriate. He has to make Jacobi do it.

 

Jacobi drops the pencil, putting his elbows on the table so he can use them to casually push himself into Kepler’s space. His face hovers inches from Kepler's, the beginnings of a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. From this close, Kepler can see all the hidden details of his face—the tiny freckle under his left eye, the thin, faded scar just off his right nostril.

 

“We’ve got some time to kill before we have to leave,” Jacobi says, evenly.

 

“Could go over the mission plan again,” Kepler suggests, just to be annoying.

 

“Could do something else.” Jacobi's voice is low, the way Kepler likes. His eyes flicker quickly to Kepler’s lips, then back again. A question.

 

Kepler smiles. “Such as?”

 

Finally getting the cue he’d been waiting for, Jacobi grins, and leans in closer.

 

-

 

Something goes wrong. The EMP sets off too soon, but Kepler had bad intel. There’s too many guards. They weren’t ready for them. Kepler wants to kill them all out of fury, wants to stop Jacobi in his tracks and make him build a bomb to decimate this place, but they don’t have time for this. They don’t have time to do anything except shoot and run.

 

Jacobi’s taking point, because Kepler has the briefcase with the prototype, but Jacobi’s just as thrown as Kepler is, and it's affecting him more. He’s rounding corners too quickly, his shooting is off—wasting bullets. Kepler wants to smack him to make him focus, but they’re too outnumbered in this building for him to berate Jacobi without someone tracking them down. He can’t _yell_ here, which aggravates him more.

 

Jacobi passes an open doorway without even glancing to check for guards. Enough.

 

“Jacobi,” Kepler hisses.

 

“What?” Jacobi bites out, without turning around. He's just as angry as Kepler but there's an edge to it. He knows he's going to be yelled at.

 

“Pay atten—“

 

Jacobi rounds a corner and immediately gets boxed in the face by a guard. The momentum sends him stumbling backwards. Kepler goes for his own gun, but the guard has three friends who follow. He doesn’t have time. It has to be a fistfight.

 

He head-butts the closest guard, surprising him enough to knock him back into the other two. _Buffoons_ , Kepler thinks. He uses the briefcase to smack another one across the head. The third manages to land a hit on him, punches him in the stomach. Kepler fakes him out, dropping the briefcase and doubling over. The guard moves closer to finish him off, and Kepler uses his full strength to elbow him in the face. He hears bones crack—not his own. _Good_ , he thinks, spitefully. _Choke on it._

 

Another comes for him. Over the guard's shoulder he sees Jacobi, pressed against the wall, kicking a guard away from himself. It shouldn’t have taken him that long to shake him off. His gun's not in his hand anymore.  _Focus, idiot._

 

Broken-nose charges for Kepler, the other two following his lead. Kepler’s ready for him, dodges away in time to shove him head first into the wall. It knocks him out, but his buddies are on Kepler now.

 

From the other direction, he hears Jacobi yell out in pain. God _damn_ it, does he have to do _everything?_

 

Kepler kicks the closest guard in the shin, pushes him into the other guy as he flinches down. They trip a few yards away from him, recover quick enough to try charge him again, but Kepler’s a quicker draw. He shoots them both twice, and releases an enraged breath as he watches them stagger backwards before dropping dead. Finally.

 

“Jacobi!” He shouts as he turns around, ready to lay into Jacobi for being an imbecile, but Jacobi doesn’t answer. Jacobi is lying flat on his back, straddled by the guard. The guard who is strangling him. Jacobi's face is red and panicked, but only for a moment. Kepler turns just in time to see Jacobi’s hands fall limply to the floor, eyes rolling shut.

 

Kepler doesn't hesitate before firing, shooting at the guard until his pistol starts clicking empty. He doesn’t watch the guard fall backwards, like he did with the others. He beelines for Jacobi instead, going straight for his pulse.

 

Nothing.

 

Kepler feels a sudden spike of frustration, swooping in his stomach. He drops the pistol, and starts CPR. Jacobi's body is unnaturally slack under his hands, like a rag-doll. Empty. Kepler wishes he could just punch Jacobi awake.

 

The CPR only lasts a few seconds, but Kepler feels like he's been doing it for hours. Jacobi’s still hanging on the edge of life. He gasps awake, shoving Kepler away on reflex. Somehow, Kepler's the one who feels he can breathe easier. Jacobi coughs violently. Kepler doesn’t wait to check on him. He goes back for the briefcase and throws it a Jacobi, with a little more force than strictly necessary. Jacobi fumbles but catches it.

 

“I’m taking the lead,” Kepler says, sternly, as he picks up his gun and reloads. “Let’s go.”

 

A bewildered look flashes briefly across Jacobi's face, quickly replaced by a dark glare, shaken and angry. The guard didn't pull his punches judging by the bruises already colouring Jacobi's cheek. There’s a long, deep gash over his eyebrow, steadily dripping blood down the right half of his face. His neck is pink and raw. Kepler doesn't want to look at it.

 

“ _Now,”_ Kepler barks, and walks on ahead, not checking to see if Jacobi follows.

 

-

 

“Did I not train you sufficiently or are you just that _useless_?” Kepler spits, viciously. He’s halfway through a tirade about everything Jacobi has ever done wrong in his life. As if it’ll be enough for Jacobi to finally _listen_ to him.

 

They’re in the car now, prototype safe and sound in the trunk. Jacobi’s staring sullenly out the window, knee bouncing restlessly with excess adrenaline, blood crusting brown on his face. There's a shadow on his neck now—the bruising starting to peek out. Kepler can see the faint outlines of fingerprints. He squeezes the steering wheel tighter, resisting the urge to plunge Jacobi's pathetic head through the passenger window.

 

He let's his anger out with words instead. “Not even checking corners, the most _basic_ of training, and you can’t even do _that_ right.”

 

Jacobi turns away from the scenery outside to glower at Kepler. Like he has  _anything_ to be angry about the complete—

 

“Of all the moronic, idiotic—“

 

“Those mean the same thing,” Jacobi says without a trace of humour.

 

He's trying to rile Kepler up even more. Kepler's seen this after other bad missions—all of Jacobi's pent-up, volatile energy leaking out into self-destruction. On missions like those, Jacobi has a nasty habit of disappearing to a nearby bar, and taking full use of his unnatural ability to make complete strangers want to deck him. He'll usually show up the next morning, a little more bruised up, but relaxed again.

 

It won't work for him this time, however, because Kepler doesn't want to deck him. Kepler wants to  _obliterate_ him.

 

“Be. _Quiet._ ” Kepler says, dangerously.

 

“What does it matter?” Jacobi’s voice is rough from the choking, breaking when he speaks too loudly. “We got out, we completed the objective, you got what you wanted!”

 

“What I _wanted?_ That was a shit-show, Jacobi. You almost died.”

 

“Like you _care_ ,” Jacobi mutters. So that's what he's mad about.

 

Kepler smacks his hand on the steering wheel. “That is not the _point._ I don’t have to care, because the _mission comes_ _first_ , and this mission was a train-wreck, because of _you_ and _your_ incompetence. I’m supposed to be able to trust that you know what you’re doing, and that I won’t have to waste time and energy _saving your ass_ , because you’re too inept to get out of a fistfight alive.”

 

“I’m sorry, _I’m_ not the one who made a mission plan assuming there’d only be twenty guards,” Jacobi snaps, not sorry at all.

 

“No, _you’re_ the one who screwed up the EMP and had to get CPR just to make it out of the  _building_.”

 

Jacobi opens his mouth to respond again, but Kepler has had enough.

 

“ _Don’t._ ” He growls. He takes a breath, trying to release some of the tension in his body, but he’s still too wound up—too incensed—manages to only loosen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel a fraction. He wants to keep yelling, but there's not point. Jacobi's not listening.

 

Kepler grits his teeth. Takes another breath. “Stop. Talking.”

 

Jacobi crosses his arms and goes back to quietly seething out the window.

 

-

 

The motel room is the same as they’d left it which seems…inaccurate, somehow. The sheets haven’t been changed because it’s still the middle of the night, and housekeeping hasn’t been by yet. The bedcovers lay in the same crumpled mess they had made when they—before they left.

 

It sets Kepler on edge. Makes him even more furious with Jacobi.

 

As if on cue, Jacobi brushes past him, ignoring him, petulantly.

 

“I’m swapping out the car.” Kepler says. They don’t need a new car, but Kepler doesn’t want to be here. He needs a minute or else he’ll kill Jacobi himself. “Get yourself cleaned up. We leave as soon as I get back.”

 

He doesn’t give Jacobi time to respond, storming out and slamming the door behind him.

 

He takes the car on the road and drives in circles, taking random turns, and going around the block in arbitrary variations. He takes long, deep breaths, trying to loosen his body enough so he won't go postal on the next person who comes too close.

 

He doesn’t know why he’s so pissed off, which only pisses him off more. Jacobi has screwed up worse than this before. He’s almost died before too.

 

Kepler has never said this to him, because Jacobi would take it the wrong way, but he's always had an inkling that—out of the three of them—Jacobi would be the first to go. He works with explosives, he's the worst shot, he’s the most impatient—it makes sense. But that doesn’t mean Kepler _wants_ it. Doesn’t mean he’s expecting it either. Despite all the near-death experiences they’ve all had, none have ever been this close—this tangible.

 

He needs to get it into Jacobi’s thick skull that it’s _unacceptable_. This mistake does not happen again, because the next time it does, Kepler will let him die. But Jacobi’s too startled, still, to internalise any of it.

 

He’d been skittish as they left the building, flinching away every time Kepler stepped too far into his space. Threats won’t work now because everything’s still a threat. Telling him he’d let him die won’t work because he’s already upset that Kepler doesn’t care.

 

It’s stupid. And sentimental. And unnecessary. Kepler doesn’t _have to_ care. Dying is part of the job. Jacobi’s not irreplaceable. Sure, it would be hard to find someone just as good as Jacobi whose company he actually enjoys, but this isn’t fucking high school. He doesn’t have to _like_ them.

 

Jacobi should know better.

 

-

 

He comes back to find Jacobi sitting at the table, completely still. Unnaturally so. He has the first aid kit open, with the tiny mirror they keep in there propped up against it. There's a towel on the table, stained pink with blood.

 

Kepler clear his throat. Jacobi just sits, staring at himself, eyes distant.

 

The bruises on his neck are worse now, angry and purple. The fingerprints are stark against the rest of Jacobi’s skin, making it look pale in comparison.

 

“Jacobi,” Kepler says. He was going for commanding, but it comes out quieter.

 

Jacobi blinks, and turns to look at him. He seems surprised Kepler’s there, but like he doesn’t have the energy to express it fully. There's a hideous mixture of green and yellow bruises on his face, mingling like watercolours. The gash on his forehead is clean now, though it’s still too open, with blood peeking out at the edges.

 

“Why aren’t you stitched up?”

 

Jacobi picks up a needle from the table top and holds it up in air, resting his elbow lightly on the table’s edge. They normally leave any stitching that needs to be done up to Jacobi. He has the steadiest hands—practiced from cutting thin wires, and putting together precise amounts of erratic ingredients. His hand shakes now.

 

“I can’t stop.” He says, flatly.

 

Kepler sighs, feeling exhausted, all of a sudden. “Give it to me.”

 

He pulls up a chair, interlocking their knees as he scoots into Jacobi’s space. Jacobi’s still jumpy, judging by the way he tenses, be he lets Kepler in nonetheless. Kepler holds his chin, gently, moving Jacobi’s face into the right angle. He can't see very well—the only light in the room coming from a weak lamp in the corner—but he doesn't want to turn the lights on. Doesn't really want to see the full force of Jacobi's injuries.

 

He cleans the cut again, carefully, does the same to the needle. Jacobi huffs out a tiny breath of discomfort when Kepler first pokes the needle in, but settles quickly, used to it.

 

Kepler works quietly. It’s close to 3am, probably. The only sound he can hear is their breathing. Kepler can feel Jacobi’s breath, steady against his jaw, can feel his own breath bouncing back at him from Jacobi’s cheek. Ignores how intimate it feels.

 

Jacobi’s pliable under his fingers, moving easily when directed. He’s not really paying attention, staring into space, lost in his own thoughts. Kepler wonders how deeply Jacobi's fear of death runs. It's never been all that noticeable before. Jacobi tends to be good at playing off his close calls, throwing out some dry comment that resets the status quo, prevents anyone from worrying about him. Kepler's never asked, because as long as Jacobi's functional, his fears don't matter.

 

Kepler finishes the stitches quickly, eager to leave this entire ordeal behind them. He goes for the Arnica cream, dabs gently at the bruises on Jacobi’s cheek. At this, Jacobi finally reacts, glancing at Kepler’s hand suspiciously. Kepler continues, moving his hand down, stops at the bruise by Jacobi’s jaw. He meets Jacobi’s eyes, waiting for permission.

 

Jacobi swallows, then looks away, staring into space again, but focused now. Alert.

 

Kepler moves his hand down. He moves delicately, at first, spreading the cream around as much as he can so the handprints don’t get too ugly. Too... _there._

 

Jacobi’s hands—caught between his legs, resting lightly on Kepler’s knee—twitch helplessly, but he doesn’t flinch away like he clearly wants to.

 

Kepler catalogues the details of the bruise, running his fingers feather-light down Jacobi’s neck. The fingerprints don’t fade at the edges the way most bruises normally do. The guard must have been squeezing hard. Kepler notes, distantly, that the guard's hand is smaller than his, but only just. Bizarrely, Kepler wants to put his own hand against Jacobi’s neck, to compare, but doesn’t.

 

At the juncture where Jacobi’s neck meets his torso, Kepler notices another bruise. One he left behind earlier, when they were in bed, small and dull compared to the new addition. He feels momentarily knocked out, drowning under a heavy wave of discomfort. That swooping feeling from earlier comes back. The one he got when he couldn't feel Jacobi's pulse.

 

Jacobi hasn’t flinched away yet. Jacobi wants to—Kepler can sense the tension coiled tightly between his shoulders—but he hasn’t. He trusts Kepler not to hurt him. As he _should_ , but the knowledge doesn't sit right in Kepler's head anymore. He feels...disturbed. He wishes he could communicate to Jacobi why that’s a bad idea—a _mistake_. He’s misjudged this. He’s wrong. Jacobi trusts him. If Kepler tried to push, Jacobi would let him. If Kepler wrapped his hand around Jacobi's throat, Jacobi wouldn't make him stop. He would be terrified and anxious, but he would _let_ him. Kepler used to get power-trips from this. From knowing he could do almost anything to Jacobi, and Jacobi wouldn’t try to stop him, wouldn’t _want_ to. It used to thrill him, that Jacobi would do anything for him. That Jacobi would die for him if he asked. That he wouldn't have to ask.

 

Kepler feels outside of himself, like he's full of too much— _too much_. Pushed out of his own body and watching it through a movie. The Kepler character's off-kilter.

 

He stares at the hickey he left at the base of Jacobi's neck, barely an inch away from the handprint of the man who killed Jacobi, for a minute there.

 

Suddenly desperate for it, Kepler slides his fingers to Jacobi’s pulse, and presses in just enough to feel...something. The knot in his chest, that he didn't even notice was there, slips loose, abruptly. Kepler feels knocked off his axis. Knocked out by something like relief. It’s not comforting. There's a thought fuzzy in his head, and he can't quite catch it. All he can do is feel the gentle push of Jacobi's blood.

 

He notices, in the periphery of his vision, Jacobi watching him, eyes big and dark. Scared.  _Like a woodland_ _animal,_ Maxwell says in his head, a familiar joke. He doesn’t want to meet Jacobi's gaze, but he can’t help himself. He has Jacobi’s heartbeat pushing against the pads of his fingers, through the violent mark on Jacobi’s neck, and he can’t not look.

 

Kepler wants to—

 

He—

 

He moves his hand, slides it to grip the back of Jacobi’s neck, fingers tangling in Jacobi’s hair. And then he pulls him into a kiss.

 

Jacobi goes off, like a— _well_. He kisses back, instant and desperate. He surges forward, and Kepler pulls him in, lets Jacobi straddle him in the chair, and lean over him. All around him. Jacobi is shaky, breathing raggedly into Kepler’s mouth, making half aborted movements to find purchase on any inch of Kepler he can reach. Kepler runs his other hand down his back, slowly, trying to anchor him, kissing him as deliberately as he can, so Jacobi pays attention.

 

He only keeps his cool because Jacobi doesn’t. This doesn’t feel—it’s too much. This, and death, and everything else about them. All the other times they’ve kissed felt detached from the reality of their lives. A quick, meaningless fuck, because it was fun. Because they enjoy each other so why the hell not. It’s not like it matters.

 

This isn’t that.

 

They’re kissing like they’re—like—

 

Kepler doesn’t _have to_ care if Jacobi dies, but he feels a phantom weight pressing against his ribs, and his thumb is still connected to Jacobi’s pulse.

 

_Oh._

 

Kepler pulls away.

 

They both gasp, breaths mingling in between their mouths. Their foreheads don’t touch because Kepler won’t allow it, but their faces are close, heads bent together. Intimately.

 

“We have to go, Mr Jacobi,” Kepler says, surprised at how raw his own voice sounds. He clears his throat.

 

Jacobi sits still on his lap, watching him like he may have had a similar epiphany. He swallows, and nods.

 

-

 

Jacobi falls asleep in the car. Kepler doesn’t normally let him, predisposed to annoying Jacobi any way he can, most of the time. It’s been a long night, however.

 

The passing streetlights distort the colours inside the car. Jacobi’s skin, yellow and glowing. His bruise a dark, dull orange, in contrast. Kepler keeps getting distracted by him, feeling compelled to look, knowing what he’s going to see anyway, catching himself too late to play it off as nothing, even though he’s the only one paying attention.

 

They’re close to Canaveral by the time the sun comes up. Kepler stops at a diner on the fringes of some small town nearby, and nudges Jacobi awake for breakfast.

 

They don’t talk as they go in—Jacobi still half-dazed from sleep, Kepler just reticent.

 

Kepler orders for both of them. French toast for himself, though he’s not really hungry; Jacobi’s usual breakfast—scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. They both take their coffee black.

 

The waitress eyes Jacobi’s neck warily as she takes their order, smiling a little too politely to be sincere. She doesn’t look at Kepler. Only glances at him briefly, before walking away. Kepler glares at her retreating back.

 

Jacobi seems unperturbed. He’s back to himself again, if a little quiet. He looks around the diner calmly, scanning for all the exits, a force of habit Kepler drilled into both him and Maxwell.

 

The waitress comes back with their food, still avoiding Kepler’s eyes.  _You don’t know us,_  Kepler thinks viciously. Hopes she slips and lands in the fryer.

 

Jacobi takes a casual bite of bacon, and says, “So?”

 

Kepler doesn’t even look at his food. “So,” He agrees.

 

Jacobi feigns indifference. The familiarity of it comforts Kepler. He can deal with this. If Jacobi is just normal, aloof Jacobi it’s easier, somehow.

 

“You gonna lecture me again?” Jacobi asks. His voice is still a little rough around the edges, but it’s better than last night. That’s comforting too. Kepler wants him to say something sardonic.

 

“Do you need to hear it?”

 

Jacobi looks appropriately abashed. “No, sir. Won’t happen again.”

 

“Good,” Kepler says.

 

Jacobi nods, leaning back in his seat, bacon still in hand.

 

There’s still the other thing. They’ve never _talked_ about it before. Not really. Not like real people. Kepler doubts either of them know how, at this point, too far gone and too fucked up to fathom an emotion that doesn’t get compartmentalised right away. He wonders what Jacobi makes of this. He wonders what Jacobi thinks _he_ makes of this.

 

“I…appreciate your company,” Kepler finally says.

 

A tiny crease appears between Jacobi’s brows. He looks unconvinced, like Kepler's only saying it because he knows that's what Jacobi was upset about. Because it's what he needs to say to manipulate him back to default settings. Which isn't...untrue. Kepler doesn’t know if it’s insecurity, or if Jacobi's self-preservation is finally kicking in.

 

It’s stupid to waste his energy trying to convince Jacobi he means it. Kepler should take this as the out it is—let them both move on from this experience with enough boundaries left to do their jobs correctly. It would be the prudent thing to do.

 

He thinks of Jacobi, fidgety and anxious, letting him run his fingers down the tender makes on his neck, looking at him like even then, even after death, if Kepler said jump he’d say _how high?_ He remembers the distraught way Jacobi had kissed him, both of them too aware of Jacobi’s mortality to get anywhere with it, but needing it still. He feels the ghost of Jacobi’s heartbeat at the edge of his fingertips.

 

He feels...powerful, and helpless all the same.

 

Kepler makes a decision, stretching his leg out under the table, pressing his knee against Jacobi’s, trying to focus on the warmth of it, instead of how irrevocably bad this is going end.

 

Jacobi’s eyebrows rise marginally. His lips quirk at the corner, barely restraining a smile, like he can’t help himself. He must be aware of it, because he rolls his eyes, like Kepler's the one being ridiculous.

 

“Okay, fine. I’ll go to prom with you,” He says with his regular level of sarcasm, betrayed by how much he’s clearly enjoying this moment. Under the table, his knee knocks against Kepler's playfully.

 

Kepler doesn’t dignify the quip with a smile, but he lets the fond amusement he’s always felt for Jacobi break through, for once.

 

He knocks his knee back in response.

 

“Eat your food, Mr Jacobi,” He says, softly.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sporadically active the tumble, if ya like: raylangivins.tumblr.com.


End file.
